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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121969">A Stone's Throw Away</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_carmichael/pseuds/mary_carmichael'>mary_carmichael</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Clive is so sweet its disgusting, College, Coming of Age, Eventual Smut, Fluff, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Set in the 1920s not 1910s</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:40:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,038</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121969</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_carmichael/pseuds/mary_carmichael</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of the romance between Maurice and Clive. Clive is rewritten as coming from a lower-middle class background.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clive Durham/Maurice Hall</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Plosives</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The names of the family members have changed completely! Also I'm from New York, I know nothing about the layout of London. I literally just makeup street names.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="big">Winter 1920</span>
</p>
<p>They agreed. The coarse, gaudy tussar-silk drapery was an eyesore. Since the college term began, he rarely spent his time at the flat and nearly forgot their existence. The two discussed getting rid of them, but never came round to it, and with the light of dawn bleeding through the curtains, it was a hideous reminder that some things, even the least comely, could not be bothered to throw away. Maurice convinced him through his pillow that in all likelihood they would never part from it. </p>
<p>“You do know it was a gift from my mother. She would throw a fit to see it discarded,” he said. </p>
<p>“It’s insulting. It’s an insult to me and the sunrise. It ought to go. Honestly, how could you accept such a gift?” </p>
<p>“Tosser.” </p>
<p>"Hmmm." A comfortable silence ensued and Clive fell back asleep. Maurice wistfully regarded the morning sky through another window plainly draped with white curtains. The clouds drifted with ease and liberty the couple felt but knew was fleeting. Maurice hesitated, breathing through his pillow before sitting up. His hair tousled from the night before hung just beyond his eyes, which gazed at the form beside him. His side rose and fell almost imperceptibly underneath the blankets. </p>
<p>Maurice cautiously lifted his sheets and placed them atop the slumbering figure. He then swung his feet to the cold floor and stood, stretching his taut limbs while fully admiring him. Clive's hair was mussed in a way only a lover could find beautiful, but through the sheets, his shoulder curved almost voluptuously to his waist. Maurice couldn’t help but lift them again to plant a kiss on his shoulder, eliciting a lovely sigh from Clive. </p>
<p>“Again.” Maurice made a trail up to his chin then littered his face with chaste kisses before walking to the window.    </p>
<p>The awful drapes trembled against the draft. Maurice only had to nudge the window-pane for it to admit a wild breeze. He leaned on the frame, inhaling, absorbing every degree of the frigid air which further roused him. He wondered how a morning like this could ever end. How it could succumb to a day of toil: when people worked all day bent over desks with cricks in their backs; when cars at the behest of their frustrated drivers pumped out exhaust. Maurice looked askance at the calm, collected sky above and the busy, banal world below. The firmament tinged everything with a sardonic shade of blue. Like the sky itself mocked him for ever considering to escape the clutches of reality, for ever thinking that Maurice and Clive could pass their years in this aerie atop a mountain. However mocking, Maurice still wished this morning would never abandon them and breathed through the icy air until his throat rasped painfully. </p>
<p>“Maurice?” The figure half-awake reached over expecting warmth but was only introduced to an unwelcome chill. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and hugged himself. </p>
<p>“Close that dreadful window. How you can rise at such an ungodly hour is beyond me.” </p>
<p>But Maurice just could not tear himself from the world yet. People strolled down streets; cyclists aimlessly cycled. He looked on sadly, eyeing all with a sharp envy. Envious that people could so calmly surrender themselves to their ordinary lives. As the day began, so too would their troubles. </p>
<p>“Darling, I’d regret repeating myself.” </p>
<p>Maurice barely heard him but he quickly shut the window roughly and almost ripped the curtains off of their hooks before eagerly approaching the bed, diving into it. Clive rarely called him that. It was an endearment uttered only in that special state between sleep and wakefulness. In those fleeting moments when Clive was most tender. Only during those elusive, blissful moments was Clive the more pliant one. He smiled drowsily, embraced him, then immediately flinched. </p>
<p>“You’re awfully freezing.”</p>
<p>“Freezing, you say?” Maurice snuggled him, but the man recoiled and cocooned himself in the blankets.</p>
<p>“Give me the sheets.” Clive relented and they shared the covers. A sigh issued between them and Clive found himself lost in Maurice's arms.</p>
<p>Then he remembered. </p>
<p>“You did send a wire, didn’t you?” Clive asked and Maurice's grip loosened. </p>
<p>“Hmm?” Clive sat up. </p>
<p>“A wire. To the college. You sent them one, surely?” But the man was catatonic and for a moment couldn’t fathom what Clive was asking. He sat up too. </p>
<p>“W-what?” </p>
<p>“‘W-wh-what?,’” he gently mocked. Clive nudged him. “The wire: did you send it or didn’t you?” His eyes widened in realization. </p>
<p>“I guess—I guess I forgot.” Clive fell back into the bed and then chuckled.</p>
<p>“You know we’re about to receive a hell of an earful from Shelley. Imagine the look on his contemptuous face.” They had a lecture scheduled at noon, and before their recent series of elopements they had been punctual students with unblemished records. </p>
<p>This was just one of a series of blunders. </p>
<p>Clive shook his head slowly with a blank gaze and chuckled drily.</p>
<p>“I will wire the dean and think of some excuse,” Maurice said. They both realized how stupid the pair of them had been. Without word, notice, or ounce of sense they had abandoned their wonted tea-time spent with the class and slept the night in Maurice's apartment a couple miles from the university. It always began in the same way: among Clive’s group of friends Maurice's glances shifted in a particular direction. Of course Clive caught on, but it took some time, distracted by his mates as usual. All it took was a nod from Clive and they were off. Ensconced, the night was not yet over, but the morning always came too soon.</p>
<p>“Thank you.” </p>
<p>Maurice walked to his wardrobe to pull out a pair of underwear and an undershirt and laid them on the bed. Clive looked up at him with his covers pulled up to his chin. Maurice glanced at Clive's garments strewn all across the floor. </p>
<p>"I'll wash them and in the meantime you can wear these and whatever else you can find in—" Clive shook his head. </p>
<p>"Oh, Maurice, you don't need to—"</p>
<p>"You're not wearing your dirty underwear!"</p>
<p>"No, it's not the underwear, it's..." Clive eyed Maurice's vast collection of suits of diverse shades, patterns and styles. All primly tailored and crisply ironed. Then he looked down to his plain, awkwardly-cut, three-piece on the floor.</p>
<p>"What?" Clive stared at the floor.</p>
<p>"It's...what?"</p>
<p>"I can wear my own clothes." Maurice silently nodded. Once fully dressed, Maurice walked down the hall to the telephone. His heart palpitated as he dialed the college and said he wished to speak with Dean Shelley. Whoever answered informed him that he was lecturing and could be contacted in an hour, at the least.</p>
<p>“Would you like for me to relay a message to him?” He chewed a fingernail. </p>
<p>“Ah, yes, could you tell him—tell him my mother is ill and that Clive Durham and I were caring for her over the previous days. We won’t be able to attend his lecture,” he said all too quickly. </p>
<p>“Right…” the person said with an edge of suspicion, “I will pass on the message, Mr…”</p>
<p>“Hall. Maurice Hall.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.</p>
<p>“I will pass on the message, Mr. Hall. Which lecture won't you be able to attend?” </p>
<p>“The one at twelve forty-five.” After hanging up, he opened the door to their room to see the bed made and Clive standing at the window lighting a cigarette. A tense Maurice entered with a heavy breath. The warm tenderness from the early morning evaporated, leaving only briskness. </p>
<p>“Spare me one, would you? Christ, I’m a terrible liar,” he said as he approached Clive. He gingerly placed it between his lips. He lighted it and relief bloomed in Maurice's chest. </p>
<p>“Thanks.” Clive only nodded and tapped the cigarette butt in response over the ashtray on the window frame; then he placed it in his mouth.</p>
<p>“Look, Clive—”</p>
<p>“We’ll grow sick of this, would you not agree?” he asked with the cigarette dangling from his lips. </p>
<p>Maurice knitted his eyebrows and felt his throat close. Clive crushed the butt to the ashtray and stepped forward to press Maurice's temple to his lips, but Maurice pulled away. Clive looked at him with a confused frown. Maurice looked away.</p>
<p>“Erm, we’ve a train to catch.” </p>
<p>They gathered their belongings and made their way to the street. While the sun bore down on them, Maurice walked swiftly ahead of Clive and threaded through the crowd without looking back. Clive desperately straggled behind, almost losing him in the throng. The station was closeby, only a couple blocks away, and the only thing shared between them was an impenetrable silence. Finally, the station came into view: a dingy, grey platform nearly empty. Only a pacing mother and shuffling daughter. The train finally arrived, smoking and furious. </p>
<p>Maurice and Clive stepped into the aisle, entered a booth, and Maurice instantly sat down crossing his arms and legs. Clive sighed, shook his head and took the seat opposite him.</p>
<p>“Maurice…” He perked an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?” </p>
<p>“What’s going to happen to us?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“What’s wrong with us?” Clive glanced furtively around the car.</p>
<p>“Oh, come now!” he hushed. The conductor arrived at their booth, barely noticing Maurice at first.</p>
<p>“Tickets, please.” Maurice only looked through the window, forcing Clive to hand both of their tickets to the man as he looked at Maurice in disbelief. The conductor glanced between them.</p>
<p>“What is the matter with him?” he said to Clive.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Clive waved his hand dismissively. “Troubles with women," he said with a wink. The conductor chuckled lightly. </p>
<p>“Ah, no worries, old chap! Where are you getting off?” Clive answered for him.</p>
<p>“Warwick Avenue.” The old man’s face brightened.</p>
<p>“Splendid! I know a place just on the corner of—” Through Clive’s guffaws he interrupted him.</p>
<p>“It’s alright. He’ll survive.” Maurice, still facing away from both of them, reddened all throughout his nape and the conductor smiled sadly.</p>
<p>“Oh, well…” With heavy footsteps the man left their booth and Clive grinned to himself. </p>
<p>“Is he gone?” Clive leaned into the aisle and could see no one. </p>
<p>“Yep.” Maurice threw his arms aside and kicked Clive in the shins wildly and relentlessly.</p>
<p>“Ow! Christ, that hurts!” Maurice did not stop until he himself was kicked in the shin.</p>
<p>“Quit acting like a child, Maurice!”</p>
<p>“Me, a child?” he said, incredulous. “You’re calling me a child after telling the conductor that I have woman troubles for a couple of laughs!” Clive hushed him through his chuckles. </p>
<p>“You know I meant no harm. I’m merely trying to make light of a dire situation. And I’m not quite wrong, am I?” He smiled, though it was a smile tinged with sorrow. His smiles were always contagious and Maurice sent one in return. A few moments of silence passed before Maurice frowned and muttered. Clive toed his ankle.</p>
<p>“What was that?” </p>
<p>“I said I’ll never grow tired of you.” Clive tilted his head.</p>
<p>“What—what you said up in the flat… you may grow sick of this—of me—but I know exactly what I want. Who I want.”</p>
<p>“I never said I was sick of you. I meant this—this secrecy. How could you think that? Listen—” Maurice shook his head with his eyes on the ground.</p>
<p>“Please, hear me, Maurice! It’s evident how I feel about you. I don’t want to lose this, lose you. So… we need to take precautions. If we continue these honeymoons people will suspect.” Staring at Clive, Maurice's anger dissolved as sadness materialised in its stead.</p>
<p>“What are we to do?”</p>
<p>He knew that the light at the end of the tunnel was solitude with Clive. It would be a life where they would have to toss away their family names and every tie to society in order to live peacefully together. Would it be worth it? Maurice would have liked to think so. He would have liked to think a lot of things. That he would happily sacrifice anything and everything in the name of love, but a life without typical daily-encounters? A life bereft of affable strangers, family, close friends? It didn’t seem like one worth living. But so did one without him.</p>
<p>Clive looked at him with desperate uncertainty. Maurice could only shake his head and touch his hand as he felt the train slow to a stop at Warwick Avenue. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>“Incorrigible, utterly irresponsible! Do you expect me to believe such rubbish? What sort of fool do you take me for?”  </p>
<p>Apparently, when the Dean received the message three hours before, not for one minute did he believe a word of their excuse. Shelley immediately called his mother for verification, who was at once very confused when asked if Clive had stayed with her for the past week. Clive opened his mouth to speak, but the dean interrupted.</p>
<p>“As you can see, Mr. Durham, I'm in an ill-humour for your witty remarks. Enough damage has been done, no need to add insult to injury. It’s a privilege to be a student at this university, and it seems that you’d easily toss it for a few nights of carousing! To say I’m disappointed would be an absolute understatement. Our once finest pair of students, really! Your parents’ investment in your welfare and education seems to have been all for naught. It’s an especial shame for you, Mr. Durham!”</p>
<p>“Sir, please—” </p>
<p>“Do you know how hard your father has worked to get you here, Mr. Durham? Do you know how often he comes to me talking,  begging about paying your tuition? If not for him, I would not hesitate to expel you! A week’s suspension will have to be the punishment for your repugnant delinquency.” </p>
<p>When Dean Gladwell was angry his eyes tended to widen and his eyebrows floated to his nonexistent hairline. At this moment he looked less like a raging bull and more like a bug-eyed monkey. Maurice noticed this with a chuckle and tried to mask it with a deep cough.</p>
<p>“What could possibly be comical right now! By all means, Hall, humour me!” demanded the old man. Maurice shook his head and Clive looked at his shoes.</p>
<p>“Nothing.” </p>
<p>“What? What, Mr. Hall?”</p>
<p>“Nothing, <i>sir<i>. I apologise profusely for my behavior. I’m afraid I’ve also taken my opportunities for granted.”</i></i></p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p>Dean Shelley sharply nodded and Maurice and Clive shared a glance.</p>
<p>“I want you two out of my office. Gather your belongings, go home, and admit guilt to your parents. I expect you back here. In my office. Monday morning.” </p>
<p>Before they could be berated any longer, the boys fled the room.</p>
<p>"Oh, don’t blame me for laughing. His face, I’d pay a fortune to witness it again.” Clive was about to utter a witty remark when—</p>
<p>“Golden boy!” The familiar harsh shout that resounded throughout the cavernous hall made Clive’s head lurch back, while Maurice immediately stiffened. Clive swiftly assumed his air confidence and swiftly left Maurice's side.</p>
<p>“Harris! What have you been up to, old fellow?” Clive warmly greeted. The man was surrounded by his other friends all dressed in their casual clothes. </p>
<p>“Slaving my way through the books as per usual. We were just about to go out and catch some drinks. Where were you, Durham? I went to your dorm yesterday. You weren’t there.” </p>
<p>Clive glanced at Maurice, then to Harris.</p>
<p>“Oh, Hall and I went into the city to get a couple drinks, and then I went to his place for the night.”</p>
<p>“Did you catch any birds?” Harris winked.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, not last night, I’m afraid,” Clive laughed, affecting a bitter disappointment.</p>
<p>“Well, why don’t you join us? We're heading into the city anyway… Plenty women there.” Maurice tensed further behind Clive.  </p>
<p>“Ah, next time, old man! We’ve, erm, been suspended by the old git and we’re one step away from being expelled outright.” </p>
<p>“A dreadful shame! Well,” he patted Clive roughly on the back, “better get going.” And with that Harris and his posse sauntered away. Clive rubbed his neck and turned to Maurice, eyeing him apologetically. </p>
<p>“It’s alright,” Maurice said. </p>
<p>They made their way up to the dining hall to scavenge for whatever food was left. Clive was greeted with an “Oi, Durham!” here and a “Golden Boy!” there. Clive, the varsity athlete and participatant in nearly every school club under the sun, was a class-favorite. Maurice didn't share his avid interest in the extracurriculars, sticking mostly to schoolwork. Maurice was not unpopular but with Clive he always felt as his inferior. </p>
<p>In the dining hall there were slim-pickings and Maurice was especially dismayed once he realized that he missed the pastry of the day. </p>
<p>“Don’t you worry, Maurice.” He said, reading his mind. "Come with me." </p>
<p> They were heading towards the kitchens. As they stopped at the swinging doors spitting servants out and swallowing servants in, Clive smiled at every one receiving a wink in return. Clive had forged a strong bond with the kitchen workers and there was an unspoken agreement that he could take whatever he wanted. They both entered but Maurice hung back, close to the entrance but out of anyone's way. 

</p>
<p>"Mr. Camden!" The head cook, a stout man of middling-age with shining ruddy cheeks and a twinkle in his eyes, greeted Clive while cleaning a station. With his apron painted with the soup of the day and his hands floured, Mr. Camden saluted him.</p>
<p>"Oh hullo, my boy! How's your father?"</p>
<p>"He's well, the bakery is selling more goods and he's added a new one that's selling well. You'd be proud."

</p>
<p>"Eh? What is it?" Clive looked at Maurice.</p>
<p>"Danishes. I'm sure they don't live up to your standards—"</p>
<p>"Rubbish! I'll visit again when I'm on holiday sometime."</p>
<p>"Oh, Mr. Camden, speaking of danishes—"</p>
<p>"Yes, take whatever you want! Absolutely anything!" As he wiped a table, he looked at Maurice.</p>
<p>"You too, lad." Maurice smiled meekly. Clive went to another section of the kitchens and grabbed a couple pastries. Maurice hung back awkwardly as Mr. Camden directed the other cooks. Clive returned and called out to Mr. Camden as he exited. 

</p>
<p>"Thanks, Mr. Camden!</p>
<p>"No worries!" They both exited the kitchens and Maurice let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding.</p>
<p>Maurice didn't quite know how he did it, how he seemed to connect to everyone. He looked at the pastries cradled in Clive's arms as he handed the single danish to him.</p>
<p>“You didn’t want a danish?”</p>
<p>“Maurice, you know how I feel about danishes: the pastry of deviants,” he winked. </p>
<p>“It’s a universally accepted fact that the croissant is the queerest of all pastries,” Maurice said sarcastically. He paused and lowered his voice. “And I don’t think that was the exact word you used last night, I believe it was—”</p>
<p>“You shush.” Maurice practically swallowed the pastry whole and they hastily made their way up to the dorms. Clive unlocked his door and after Maurice closed the door he swiftly followed him into the room and kissed his neck. Startled, Clive shoved him back.</p>
<p>“We can’t.” </p>
<p>“Can’t what?” </p>
<p>Maurice tilted his head before leaning to nuzzle him. Clive turned to begin stuffing his clothes, books, and school supplies into his abused, ugly trunk. As he folded one of his robes, Maurice took the opportunity to hug his back. Clive even permitted it, but only because he was investigating the robe. He frowned.</p>
<p>“Damn. There’s a hole.” Clive groaned. “This is the fifth one I found, I only have so many robes.”</p>
<p>“No matter, I’ll buy you all the robes you need.” Clive firmly shook his head.</p>
<p>“No, thank you. I’ll just have to send them to my mother for another mending.”</p>
<p>“For all that is good and holy, could you please learn to accept a favor!”</p>
<p>“It’s fine.”</p>
<p>“I’m only trying to help.</p>
<p>“Yes!” Clive exclaimed, exasperated. “I know!” Maurice still held him as he folded his clothes in silence. He looked over his shoulder at the nimble movements of his hands, which he had always admired. His mind wandered as he tightened his embrace.</p>
<p>“I know what else could help.” </p>
<p>Clive said nothing.</p>
<p>“Please.” The texture of his voice was full-bodied as a glass of wine. Clive knew what he was doing, and he briefly resented him for it. </p>
<p>For the effect it had.</p>
<p>“Are you daft?”</p>
<p>“I won’t make a sound.”</p>
<p>“Christ, Maurice, don’t be a fool. We’d be asking for trouble.” He kicked him lightly. “More trouble.” </p>
<p>“As you wish, My Lord. I am but at your mercy.” Maurice still had his hand on his waist when Clive’s name echoed through the door.</p>
<p>“Goodness, will they ever give you a break?” Maurice quickly stepped away from him as the door opened. A slightly ruffled young man peeked his head through the door. </p>
<p>“Sorry, Durham, I need that book I borrowed from you. Do you know that old git Stephens gave me a 15 out of 20 on my last paper? A 15!” Clive quickly browsed his shelf and pulled out a heavy, lightly used book. </p>
<p>“What did Stephens give you?” the man asked cautiously.</p>
<p>“Does it matter?” </p>
<p>“Oh, of course! With you, that means you passed with flying colors.” Clive offered him the book and he snatched it. </p>
<p>“Bless you!” And the man disappeared. Clive looked to Maurice who was pretending to scan a few sheets of paper. He looked up.</p>
<p>“What did you get?” Maurice asked.</p>
<p>“A 19.” Maurice grinned and embraced him.</p>
<p>“Why? What did you get?” Maurice sniffed his hair.</p>
<p>“20.” Clive knew he wore an insufferable smug on his face and lightly pushed him. </p>
<p>“Tosser.” </p>
<p>“You may be the Golden Boy, but I still have higher marks.” </p>
<p>They packed in relative silence. Only books and study materials since they would be gone for only a few days. The two parted briefly to consult all their professors about their situation. Dismayed, they gave them the approaching assignments and did what they could to provide information about the upcoming lectures. Clive and Maurice left the pristine campus and caught the 5:15, finding it crowded and filled with people of all sorts. They luckily found empty seats and sat beside each other. </p>
<p>“I’m about to receive an earful from my mother,” Maurice said. </p>
<p>“Please, let’s not talk about this. I don’t want to imagine the near beating my father will give me. I’d rather relish this calm before the storm.” </p>
<p>Clive closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind with Maurice nudging his leg playfully. Clive glanced up at him. </p>
<p>“Will we see each other? I don’t think I’ll survive otherwise,” Maurice said, looking down at his leg. Clive scoffed.</p>
<p>“You aren’t yet acquainted with my mother, Maurice. She’s not going to allow any guests once she finds out about this.” Maurice raised his eyebrows and leaned closer to him. </p>
<p>“Yet?” Clive rolled his eyes, smiling and slightly red. It was a familiar smile that Maurice was intensely endeared to. “Already planning on me making acquaintance with Mother? Clive, I’m truly flattered, I’ve always wanted to meet her! How long have you been planning this?”</p>
<p>“Please, Maurice! You don’t understand, she’ll not allow anyone to see me this week.” </p>
<p>“Neither will mine.” Maurice frowned but soon lit up.</p>
<p>“How about one night I sneak out, toss some pebbles at your window, and climb up the old trellis?”</p>
<p>“No.” Maurice nudged him again.</p>
<p>“No? Whyever not?” </p>
<p>Clive scoffed.</p>
<p>“Because your name is not Romeo. And my name is not Juliet.”</p>
<p>“Have it your way, then!” Maurice huffed. He looked out the window and stared intensely, only the crease in his twinkling eyes revealing his true intentions. “In any case, it isn’t as if you don’t invent names for me. Going by the events of last night.”</p>
<p>“Maurice!” He finally looked at him innocently.</p>
<p>“Yes?” Clive sighed and shook his head. </p>
<p>“We’ll just have to suffer and work through it. We’ll write to each other.” </p>
<p>“Oh, there’s no doubt about that. I plan on sending all sorts of letters to you.” </p>
<p>“Maurice, what’s gotten into you? You’re like a dog in—”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, you know I can’t help myself.” </p>
<p>“We both know that you're not sorry.”</p>
<p>	The train ride was uneventful for them both. They lived in different towns and Clive departed first. Maurice watched him through the window and Clive stood stiffly as he mimicked a military-salute. Maurice chuckled as he saluted in return and Clive left with a tender glance, an unspoken promise that it wasn’t their final goodbye. His figure shrank into the distance until he was gone. He slumped back in his seat. Images from the night before flashed in his head. </p>
<p>A bare arm, a bare leg, a bare chest. </p>
<p>Unbidden breaths bathed in bacchic, rich rhythms that ballooned and abated. </p>
<p>All of which he couldn’t erase. Not that he hadn’t tried before. Maurice knew exactly how it began. It began with mere admiration tinted with jealousy, the way most people regarded him. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>It was ages ago yet clear in his mind. Five minutes early, he entered the class anxious, as humanities were easily his worst subject. Not that he performed badly—he performed well in all his classes—but participating was not his strongest feat. It didn’t help that when he looked for a place to sit people had already divided themselves into groups. It was a small class, the smallest he had ever attended, yet he still found himself removed from all the others. The seating was oriented in a circle, which was new to him.</p>
<p>Maurice never saw him enter; Clive seemed to materialize out of thin air two seats away, surrounded by two friends fully entrenched in an intense discussion. Maurice noticed Clive first, not because he was handsome per se, but because of how he stood out among the others. His robes worn, his hair disheveled, Clive bore an overall slightly unkempt mien; the other two had an impeccable appearance. Their hair was pomaded, crisp robes freshly ironed, and there was a general debonair air about them.</p>
<p>Maurice didn’t catch the intricacies of their discussion but he didn't need to to see that Clive, although enthusiastic, conducted himself with earnest humility. A degree of arrogance emanated from the other two. Clive occasionally glanced around while making a rhetorical gesture and once or twice made eye contact with Maurice. His eyes were an aquamarine blue, speckled with—</p>
<p>“Excuse me, what’s your name?” Maurice froze. </p>
<p>“My—" Maurice's voice rasped and he cleared his throat. "My name?” The other two chuckled while Clive easily ignored them.</p>
<p>“Yes, your name,” he said leaning forward with a disarmingly genuine diamond-smile.</p>
<p>“Hall.” </p>
<p>“Hall, what do you think?”</p>
<p>“Pardon?” </p>
<p>Clive, with a (dare he say coy) tilt of the head, slouched into his chair and shrugged. </p>
<p>“What’s your opinion on this? I’m longing for more insight since these two don’t seem willing to see my side of the argument.” The other two scoffed and sent Maurice a challenging glare.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I don’t know…” But Maurice never had the opportunity to finish because the door burst open.</p>
<p>“Good morning, class! Welcome to Philosophy II, I am Professor Gladwell, and unlike the other professors I’ll merely offer a brief introduction and overview before delving directly into a discussion of the material.”</p>
<p>Maurice didn’t see the professor’s entrance, as he was absorbed in Clive. Now he momentarily evaporated from his mind as he attentively took notes. Gladwell quickly explained how the term would progress, starting of course with studies of Ancient Greek philosophy and up until Late Modern philosophy.</p>
<p>“At the beginning of each class, I’ll start with posing a simple question. I expect people to discuss it, then I will expand and relate it to the material and the ideas of various philosophers. I expect everyone to participate.” He paused to point at the students. </p>
<p>“I have no qualms about addressing students directly to answer." Maurice's heart sank. "We shall begin.” Gladwell cleared his throat before continuing. </p>
<p>“What is the origin of truth? How does one arrive at it?” Clive’s head immediately perked up, but he didn’t raise his hand yet. Professor Gladwell swept his piercing gaze across the room, awaiting a raised hand. Everyone seemed to resist making eye-contact except Clive. He looked over at the other students, making sure no one’s hand was raised before assuredly raising his own. Gladwell turned to him.</p>
<p>“Yes? What’s your name?”</p>
<p>“Clive Durham, sir.” Professor Gladwell nodded, urging him to continue. Clive shifted slightly in his seat. </p>
<p>“Sir, before I answer, erm, might I address the nature of the question itself?” Gladwell smiled and raised his eyebrows.</p>
<p>“Go ahead, Mr. Durham.” </p>
<p>“Sir, I believe that the question takes for granted that there is such a thing as an absolute truth.” The entire classroom held its breath.</p>
<p>“Please, elaborate,” Gladwell said with a twinkle in his eye.</p>
<p>“Well, for instance, in scientific theory, one cannot know something for certain, one only inquires and finds evidence in order to test an hypothesis. Even then, that isn’t to say they haven’t collected the right evidence. Well, in other words, one doesn't ever know the truth, but rather seeks the truth.” </p>
<p>“Very good.” Professor Gladwell continued by asking others for examples of what we conceive to be true. When the discussion seemed to run its course, Clive was the one to stoke the embers. He’d attentively listen to each point made, then added onto it and gave it legs. This was when Maurice learned the first thing about Clive: he was an astounding listener. Throughout Maurice's academic career he had the assumption that there were students that either talked or there were students that listened. Until now, he never met someone who could do both with ease. Clive didn’t interrupt like his other friends, he only spoke when no one had anything to say. He was more interested in the ideas of his classmates. </p>
<p>“Now, does anyone know of the earliest philosopher who questioned the criterion of truth?” </p>
<p>Not having spoken once, Maurice awkwardly raised his hand. He briefly made eye contact with Clive who offered him that same bright smile. Gladwell turned to him and nodded.</p>
<p>“And what’s your name?”</p>
<p>“Maurice Hall, sir.” Gladwell nodded again.</p>
<p>“Sir, as I understand, the earliest philosopher who questioned the nature of truth was Xenophanes, one of the Pre-Socratics.” </p>
<p>“Yes, well done,” Gladwell said before turning to the class. Maurice shyly looked to Clive, who sent an impressed grin his way. Maurice finally couldn’t help smiling back. </p>
<p>“Xenophanes:” He walked to the chalkboard and wrote out his name, “Born circa 570 B.C. in Colophon, an ancient city in Ionia. Some say he was the son of Orthomenes, others the son of Dexius. He is said to have...” </p>
<p>Maurice took notes quickly, barely having time to write out complete words as Professor Gladwell charged through the history. Every now and then, he looked up at Clive and they shared friendly glances. It wasn’t love at first sight, rather a modest curiosity and fascination. What he knew was that each time he attended the class he became more and more comfortable participating in the discussions. More willing to share his opinion. What started as a class with adequate participation from the students soon became a class filled with an increasing diversity of opinions, convictions, and insight.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>On the train Maurice fondly, almost wistfully, looked back on that first year of college. At that point when he wasn’t infatuated yet, it was the simple beginnings of a blossoming friendship. The relationship wasn’t urgent or passionate, not yet burgeoning with the intimacies which no other soul had ever breached.<br/>
Of course, he’d had lovers. Shared with others. But not everything. And as he looked out a window presenting a stale world, he knew that nothing, no one, had ever made nearly as much sense as Clive.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Silibants</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="big">Summer 1919</span>
</p><p>The summer heat that day was unbearable.</p><p>It was a Saturday, but most stayed indoors at the behest of the merciless, oppressive sun. Maurice and Clive remained in their dorms while the thick air sapped them of their sanguine spirits. They barely had the vigor to humour themselves, let alone study. Their beds were on opposite sides of the room and they were sprawled atop the sheets. The solar, sultry sneer seeped through the curtains, forcing Clive to drape his arm over his face. They were dressed in a simple set of a shirt and trousers and their collars were unbuttoned immodestly. England was known for its relative temperance in the summertime and the heat wave could not have been more inopportune. It was finals’ week. For the insanely studious few, the heat wasn’t enough to impede their studies. They just panted through their last couple weeks of the spring term. Clive groaned from the other side of their quarters.</p><p>“I’m sweating through every damn pore,” Maurice slurred. Clive turned his head before Maurice continued.</p><p>“Apparently, er," Maurice chuckled, "Mother's garden is suffering because of this heat spell. She was about to water the tomatoes when she saw that all the blossoms withered. They had to go without the sauce for dinner. It was in her words an <i>utter</i> catastrophe. Lord, I love that woman. Apparently everyone in that house is suffering similarly. If only we could share that suffering." He paused to look at him and his eyes were closed.</p><p>"You know I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night? I just laid there in a pool of my own—” Maurice paused to rub his face. “Durham, this can’t continue, it’s dreadful.”</p><p>“Well, what do you suggest I do? I’m afraid I don’t have control of the weather.”</p><p>“We need to do something, this is—”</p><p>“You could, by your best graces, do me the favor of shutting up.” Silence. “I’m sorry,” Clive sighed.</p><p>“It’s alright. If it’s any consolation, I have the urge to strangle you, too.”</p><p>“No, Hall.” Clive rose. “It’s not.” He stood and headed towards the door. Maurice looked at him.</p><p>“Where are you off to?”</p><p>“To end this suffering. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Clive gingerly shut the door and Maurice closed his eyes. The heat was a nuisance to Maurice in more ways than one. He grew more and more restless. In the past couple months he became more aware of Clive. Not only aware, Maurice was plagued with certain thoughts. Unspeakable thoughts. Maurice had always needed time to steep and stew, even with women. He’d never experienced the immediate, initial visceral feelings of attraction, even with Clive. He didn’t find him beautiful at first, but the more time he spent with him the more he admired. He savored their sweet moments of solitude. He saw them as secret—no, sacrosanct.</p><p>As days passed, he was swallowed by sickening thoughts of things that he’d never considered doing with a man. It didn’t help that Clive had that inviting, playful nature with everyone. He could never be absolutely sure, but a certain glance, a special tone of voice, a slight shove here and there—it all pointed to something. Didn’t it? But no sooner did he suspect this than Clive would switch airs completely. A subtle coolness. And Maurice made himself question whether those tones were ever there in the first place. Next year he would have to change dorms. He couldn’t fathom living another couple months in these conditions. He thanked God that the school year was practically over.</p><p>He’d despair at first, long for his lovely company, but he couldn’t go on like this.</p><p>He heard footsteps approach through the door before it opened. Clive walked towards his bed carrying a metal pail wrapped in cloth for insulation.</p><p>“What is that?” he asked.</p><p>“Say grace to your savior.” Clive tilted the pail towards him and it was a beautiful sight. The bucket was three-quarters full of ice.</p><p>“How on earth...?”</p><p>“Connections, my dear,” Clive said with a wink.</p><p>“Well, I guess I can’t question a god.”</p><p>“Flatterer.” Clive set the bucket on his nightstand and took two pieces of cloth from his pocket. He folded a few cubes of ice within it and made his way towards Maurice. At first, he thought he was merely going to hand it to him, but he did something worse. Much worse. Sinful, even. With a glance—the glance that he occasionally suspected—he gently cupped his chin and pressed the ice to his forehead. Maurice flinched and felt every nerve alight in his body.</p><p>“Better now?”</p><p>Maurice shivered.</p><p>“Too cold?”</p><p>“No, no, it’s just right.” Maurice took the pack and gently brushed his hand away. Maurice didn’t quite catch Clive’s brief downcast look.</p><p>“M'lord.” Maurice tried with a slight bow to maintain his charade of nonchalance. But he was only human and felt it come across as an awkward, fumbling gesture. Clive made a pack for himself and collapsed on the bed. He finally felt at peace.</p><p>“My goodness. I didn’t think I’d make it. Somehow it’s even hotter in the halls. I went all the way to the basement and back. But it was worth the effort.”</p><p>“Hm.” Maurice with his arm over his eyes didn’t trust himself to form a coherent sentence.</p><p>“Hall?” Clive uttered softly. Calm down, Maurice. Deep breath in, deep breath—</p><p>"Hall?" Maurice detected a measure of longing in his voice. Maurice tried to fall asleep, knowing that if he responded there'd be no hiding his feelings.</p><p>As he slowly drifted off with the ice pack sitting on his forehead, six simple, sweltry sentences scattered his soul and tore him asunder. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>I love you. I love you. I love you.</p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>I love you. I love you. I love you.</p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>He woke with a start. The sun had set and Clive’s bed was empty. There was no sign of him, not even the ice pack. His chest tightened. Maurice looked in the bucket and observed that the ice was halfway melted. He sat up and checked his pocket watch on the nightstand. Quarter to six. Splendid. He ran a hand through his soaked hair and lightly cursed. Starting tomorrow morning he would need to hunker down and continue with his studies. He rose and collected a fresh set of clothes before briefly showering. In those few minutes in the bathroom, his thoughts returned to that intimate touch. It was just another moment that would haunt him deep into the night, and he’d just have to find a way to live with it. He quickly dressed but he didn’t finish buttoning his shirt before Clive entered.</p><p>“Oh, you’re up.” He looked at him with a glance Maurice couldn’t quite place before forcing his gaze away.</p><p>“Erm, I was just about to wake you. Dinner’s served.”</p><p>For the first time he saw that Clive was avoiding looking at him. Eye-contact was his signature. His heart fell as he realised that Clive must have somehow discovered his feelings. Visions rushed through his head—thoughts of him telling his friends, the gossip spreading to the teachers, and eventually leading him to ultimate ruin.</p><p>Then Clive’s face morphed into that familiar grin.</p><p>“Come along, old chap. Food awaits.” Clive nodded towards the door. Voices emerged behind him and two faces appeared from the door frame.</p><p>“What’s the hold up?” Harris asked. He immediately saw Maurice and rolled his eyes. “What are you waiting on him for?” he muttered to Clive while staring directly at Maurice. “Let’s not sacrifice my second-helpings for this.”</p><p>“Come on, Durham,” said the other young man. He ignored them.</p><p>“Hall? Are you coming?” he asked cautiously. Maurice realised his throat was closing up. He cleared it.</p><p>“No, it’s alright, you three go. I think I need a moment to clear my head. It’s this horrid heat.” The other two quickly left the room.</p><p>“Well, we’ll be at our usual seats when you come down,” Clive encouraged. Maurice only nodded.</p><p>“Golden boy!” Harris shouted and he glanced out the door.</p><p>“Right.” Clive tapped his fingers against the door frame in a drumroll.</p><p>“Goodbye.” Clive shut the door and was gone.</p><p>With the room empty, Maurice finally hid under the damp covers, clutching the cloth that was now soaked with soured water and salty tears.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>
  <span class="big">Winter 1920</span>
</p><p>Locked in his bedroom at home, he remembered the time he felt truly alone and abandoned without Clive. He remembered the pangs of loss he felt at the thought of Clive regarding him with disgust. As it stood now, he did feel lonely but mostly because of his family. His parents actively ignored him, leaving him brooding in his own corner of the house.</p><p>He read and re-read Clive’s letters, which got him through the first half of the week. Clive refrained from too much sentimentality, wanting to save it for when they met again. They were all tinted with levity, mostly poking fun at his relatives. With five siblings and a house of eight people, there was an endless well of hilarity to drink from. It mostly had to do with the work his family did. Maurice more or less always knew that the Durhams didn’t have much money. They received a steady income from the small bakery, but it barely covered all of the living costs, let alone Clive's tuition. But they were spendthrift and resourceful. They made their way through their irony and iron will. The Durhams rarely asked for anything, yet always managed to give.</p><p>Maurice had always longed to visit his family, and he was sure that he’d love Clive's mother, going by what he said. He’d often argue with her, but they were similar in many ways, and if she was anything like him they’d get along fine. He was about to press pen to paper asking about her when a knock resounded through his door.</p><p>“Maurice?” He quickly placed a book on top of the papers.</p><p>“Come in!” His mother opened the door and walked towards him.</p><p>“Are you studying?”</p><p>“Yes.” She looked around his room and then walked to his wardrobe.</p><p>“Well, after you’re done, make yourself decent. The Alcotts are coming to dine with us.” She opened it and inspected each suit.</p><p>“I thought you said no guests were allowed?”</p><p>“No guests for you. They're for your sister. I’ve given it some thought and I don’t see why she should be punished for your own actions.” Maurice suspected that it was some other reason. His mother had a short temper, but she wasn’t the best at holding grudges and never stayed angry for long.</p><p>“Just do not attempt anything of the sort again.”</p><p>She scoured the closet before laying a few garments on the bed. She sighed with a wrinkled brow.</p><p>“This’ll have to do. We’ll expect you in the drawing room in half an hour.”</p><p>Maurice nodded and she walked out, gently closing the door behind her. He loved that woman though they had always quarreled. Their arguments were usually trivial, but last night was especially intense. His father barely had the courage to get a word in. His mother had always had high expectations of him, and the way she expressed her love was through incessant chastising. It was tiresome for him to translate this into love, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. If he had anyone to thank for his academic success, it was his mother. His father was generally unconcerned with his son, and his brand of parental love was a judge-less and indiscriminate one.</p><p>He glanced at the clothes she laid out. It was perfect attire for the occasion, not too formal, not too casual. The colors and patterns complemented each other and she chose the style that most flattered his form.</p><p>Now, moving on to Miss Alcott. She scared him.</p><p>Every time she visited he took any excuse to avoid her, to no avail. He couldn’t shake her off. She was a lovely girl but too bubbly, too bubbly for him at least.</p><p>Maurice stood and took the opportunity to address this to Olivia, who agreed with him, but admitted that Miss Alcott was someone she invited out of obligation more than anything else. She was close to her brother Laurence, and over the years got to know Miss Alcott mostly out of necessity.</p><p>“This has to stop.”</p><p>“It isn’t my problem. Elaine isn’t infatuated with me. I can’t be the one to talk with her about this,” Olivia whispered.</p><p>“Will you at least try to distract her when she’s here? Find any excuse, I’m begging you.”</p><p>“Okay. If…” Olivia bit her lip.</p><p>“If… ?”</p><p>“If you promise to visit The British Museum with Laurence. I’ll have an excuse to see him if I go with you.”</p><p>“You know Mother won’t allow that! This week she hasn’t even let me leave the house.”</p><p>“What, then?”</p><p>Maurice hesitated.</p><p>“I could… write that essay for you.” Olivia brightened.</p><p>“Really?” she squealed. Maurice quickly shushed her.</p><p>“Yes, really. When the term ends, I’ll even go take you to the museum with—” She embraced him.</p><p>“Oh, thank you, Maurice! Capital fellow!”</p><p>“Olivia!”</p><p>She tilted her head.</p><p>“Mother talked to you about saying those words.”</p><p>“No, Maurice, in her words she talked about using it with people other than family. You are family, ergo I can say what I want.” Maurice ruffled her hair.</p><p>“Oh, really?” Olivia lightly shoved him.</p><p>“What did Mother say about doing that?”</p><p>“I dunno, what?”</p><p>“She said to stop it!”</p><p>“I didn’t listen, I didn’t hear it, so for all I know she never said it!” Olivia shoved him and fled to her room, presumably to correct her hair. Maurice went to his own room to get ready. Not for Miss Alcott, only for his mother as a truce. He normally wore his hair slightly messy, but for the evening he styled it with a pomade. He hated styling his hair mostly out of laziness, but more importantly, ever since he was around Clive he resented making an effort to impress others with appearance.</p><p>He dressed himself and observed the mirror. He imagined what Clive would think of him and he knew that it wouldn't make a difference to him. Before he deserted the bedroom for the evening he carefully tucked his letter into the drawer of his desk. With a final adjustment to his tie, he closed the door and walked down the stairs.</p><p>In the drawing room his parents were drinking tea and refreshments were laid out on a table in preparation for the Alcotts’ arrival. He instantly eyed the danishes and eagerly picked one up, having barely eaten the entire day, biting into it without a second thought. His mother and father both perused The Aberdeen Press and Journal while sipping tea perfectly simultaneously without looking up at Maurice. It was a comical sight. Maurice looked at the door, waiting for his sister to arrive.</p><p>“What’s the name of that boy you gallivanted with?”</p><p>“Clive Durham.” She arched an eyebrow with her eyes still glued to the papers.</p><p>“Should I be worried?” And she finally stared Maurice down.</p><p>“No, he’s a decent chap.”</p><p>“Hm.” His father finally perked up.</p><p>“Then let’s send an invitation some time!” His mother instantly glared at him.</p><p>“David,” she warned.</p><p>“I merely want to meet the boy, I’m desperately curious. Martha, you cannot say you are not.”</p><p>She pursed her lips and turned to the papers silently and Maurice took that as a positive sign. She didn’t reject the idea outright. Never said no. She’ll come around. A door slammed and Olivia made her way into the room lightly made up and her hair finely styled. She took a scone and nearly swallowed it whole. From the corner of his eye Maurice saw his mother smile.</p><p>“Don’t forget to chew, dear,” she poked while turning the page for the both of them.</p><p>“Oh, what made you think I forgot?” Martha lifted her eyebrows before the butler announced that Miss and Mr. Alcott had just arrived. They all stood to greet them, and passed around amiable smiles. Miss Alcott’s smile to Maurice was especially warm and he said only a few cordial words to her in greeting. He eyed his sister and silently reminded her of her promise. For now, she’d have to sacrifice an evening with Laurence for an evening with Elaine. They made their way to the dining room. Maurice sent urgent glances to Laurence silently gesturing towards Elaine, communicating his frustration. Unfortunately, Laurence somehow interpreted his signals, not as glances of exasperation, but of infatuation and quickly smiled understandingly and sat beside Olivia. Defeated, Maurice sat next to a tenacious Elaine and prepared himself for his tragicomedy that he knew would ensue. Olivia stared at him apologetically and Maurice subtly shook his head.</p><p>“It’s been awhile since we’ve sat together, Mr. Hall.”</p><p>“Yes, it has,” he said as the servants laid down the meal. It took all his might to refrain from shoveling food directly from the serving platters into his mouth. After his father gave a brief speech in honor of their visit, Maurice made a movement to serve himself.</p><p>“Oh, Mr. Hall let me do the honors.” Maurice couldn’t really say ‘no’ since the dishes were closer to her, but his stomach still churned.</p><p>“Erm, thank you, Miss Alcott.”</p><p>“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” she said as she piled generous portions onto his plate.</p><p>“That’s surely evident,” he said under his breath.</p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p>“That pudding’s excellent.” Elaine giggled.</p><p>“How would you know? You haven’t tasted it yet.”</p><p>“Oh, I know by the countless occasions I’ve tried it.” Countless, indeed.</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>Maurice charged his way through dinner saying as little as possible and he managed to survive somehow. He imagined how a dinner with Clive would play out with his family. In all honesty, he’d fit right in with them. There’d be the typical embarrassment that one has of their family, but once that was surpassed he knew Clive would practically become one of their own. Once dinner was over, which he didn’t think would be possible, Laurence immediately joined Maurice and Olivia swept Elaine away.</p><p>“My apologies, Hall, I had no idea—” Maurice shrugged off his irritation with a laugh.</p><p>“Let’s not talk about it.” He did not want to be given the opportunity to vent to her brother, of all people, because he knew that once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop.</p><p>“Agreed.” For the remaining evening the topic of conversation was their studies in college. Of course neither was genuinely interested in what the other’s studies were, they just had to avoid the very subject of their sisters at all costs. The painful evening came to a close and the conclusion was a shake of Laurence’s hand and a cordial nod to Elaine. Once they left, Maurice and Olivia began to flee upstairs.</p><p>“Maurice,” Martha called. He looked back and saw a slight smile on her face. She almost looked amused.</p><p>“Thank you for conducting yourself properly in front of Miss Alcott.”</p><p>“Never again, Mother.” Once he was in his room he took a bath and doubled his efforts to wash the pomade out of his hair. Fully changed into his pyjamas, he sat at his desk, pulled the letter from his drawer, and began:</p><p>
  <i>Clive,</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I miss you terribly, and no, it’s not the typical sentimentality which drives me to write that. If only you knew the evening I’ve had. Miss Alcott made attempts once again to vie for my affections. I daresay she’s succeeded. I’m afraid my love for you is no more. If you could return the ring that would be much appreciated. I spent a fortune on that ring and I’ll be damned if I don’t get it back. In all seriousness, I almost ripped my hair out tonight. At dinner, I could only think about you and I’m going to make this letter brief because if I have to think of that girl again I might end it all.</i></p><p>
  <i>Maurice</i>
</p><p>He rubbed his eyes and stretched before switching off his desk lamp. He crumpled into his bed and fell asleep nearly instantly, his last thought being of Clive.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Oh, Plato: Part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the delay! I’m dealing with a bit of writer’s block, and I just graduated from high school so it's been pretty chaotic with the college stuff. </p><p>Also, if you can be sure to donate to the Black Visions Collective. They’re an organization with young black community leaders at the helm seeking to tackle the problems that have existed for decades. And if you can’t donate that’s alright, too! </p><p>Thanks!</p><p>Black Visions Collective: https://www.blackvisionsmn.org/</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="big">Summer 1919</span>
</p><p>	Maurice didn’t go to the dining hall that night and he assured himself that he didn’t have an appetite anyway. In fact, he never left his bed since Clive closed the door. Every five minutes his stomach cried out indignantly, but he willed it to silence. Usually, when Maurice became anxious he was wont to study; the mundane, meticulous writings had always eased his mind, whether it be a textbook or a dictionary. Not this time. </p><p>	He buried himself underneath the covers as Clive’s face etched itself into his mind. He still didn’t quite know what to make of that look. At first, it seemed to be an unmistakable look of pity, he was sure of it: those knit eyebrows, that downturned mouth, the adorably tilted head. Throughout that entire encounter, Clive only met his eyes for a mere handful of seconds. He couldn’t tell whether that meant that Clive was embarrassed for himself or for Maurice. If Clive knew, then did he feel like a fool for treating him as a close friend? Or did he feel sorry for him? Did he feel embarrassed on his behalf for harboring such feelings, let alone the plethora of such thoughts? </p><p>	But then he remembered how Clive’s mouth contorted as he chewed the inside of his cheek. Almost like whatever was on the tip of his tongue he swallowed down. That was strange. For someone who seemed to be flowing with words to bury them. If there was anything unspoken between them or even a mild hint of tension, Clive would always be the one to breach the silence. And, of course, how could he forget those eyes? Piercing wasn’t even a sufficient qualifier for them. Those eyes had always had their own way of piecing together his soul— they were never harsh. When they met Maurice’s, they were never cruel, but they had such depth that he had always felt that Clive could see his soul laid bare, revealed in front of him like a daunting puzzle. </p><p>	He must know. </p><p>	Feeling naked, Maurice smothered his face with his pillow and drew back further into the sheets.  But it was fine. He’d just never talk to him ever again. Maurice faced the wall and used his trembling index finger to trace what he knew was gibberish. He closed his eyes and tried to still his breath, hoping that any feeling of sleep would creep upon him, but to no avail. He grazed his tongue along his bottom teeth, trying to count each one. Once he counted all sixteen, he ran it along his upper teeth. All thirty-two. So, he wasn’t dreaming. </p><p>	Well, even if Clive does know…  </p><p>	In retrospect, the glance didn’t seem to be one of pointed disgust, which had been his first impression and what had left his chest tight in their empty yet suffocating room, but rather one of fear.  </p><p>	Terror? No, not quite. It was a reluctant glance. It wasn’t one of pity. His chest was still tight. </p><p>	It was eight-o-clock when Maurice barely heard him enter. Clive recently—for the past couple weeks, really—had a way of entering their room: first, there were the light footsteps (too light, too careful—unsure perhaps) towards the door and the slight pause, a split-second silence (occasionally followed by a pace or two—or ten), the quivering click of the pin-tumbler, and then the final turn of the knob.</p><p>	“Hall?” The door snapped shut and as he closed his eyes, Maurice listened to the soft shuffle towards his bed. </p><p>	“Are you alright? Why didn’t you come to dine with us?” Maurice couldn’t bear to turn and look at him and witness whatever it was that he could hear in his voice. Clive sighed as he cast a large shadow over him. Maurice’s pulse quickened further. His tracings on the wall turned into scratches as he shook just beneath the blanket of his presence. </p><p>	“Leave me alone, please. I’m not well.” Silence and then a crinkle.</p><p>	“Well, I brought you something. A gift.” </p><p>	A gift? What for? </p><p>	Maurice finally dared to turn his head to a pale, lithe hand cradling a danish a few inches away from his nose.  He refused to look up just yet. He contented himself with a clear view of his fingers. They were slender, but the nails were blunt and red, recently chewed. He had the strangest impulse to lean in and kiss them, danish be damned. But. He finally looked up to meet a pair of disarmingly steady eyes. There was no false warmth to them; they were filled with honest and open concern. </p><p>	“It’s still warm. I swiped it from the kitchens; it’s freshly out of the oven...” Maurice narrowed his eyes at the danish. He knew that in accepting it, it would be a tacit agreement to have whatever heavy conversation Clive intended to have. But was it cold to assume that, instead of seeing it as a gesture of comfort that was so signature to him? </p><p>	“Mr. Camden sends his regards,” Clive said while waving it in front of his face. He still made no move for the damn pastry and Clive let out a rough sigh before chewing on his lip. Yes, he was definitely about to talk about something. </p><p>	“Please. You have to eat something.” His heart clenched.</p><p>	“You’re not my mother. I don’t think you need to feed me.” At that, Clive looked blankly at the wall and Maurice knew that his arm was probably getting tired. Maurice wanted to hit himself and he reluctantly took it, trying his best to avoid his electric touch. As he bit into it, the bread still steamed slightly. It really was fresh out of the oven. </p><p>	<i>Oh, Clive.</i></p><p>	He wanted to grab Clive by his frayed collar, yank him down with him, bury his head into his neck, and never leave. </p><p>	“Thank you,” he said instead, stiffly. Clive nodded slowly as he stood contemplating him. Maurice tried his best to focus on his chewing, feeling the bread dissolve in his mouth, and the sugar melt onto his tongue. He certainly did not think about the implications of the person he has spent the last few weeks secretly lusting after staring at him while eating his favorite pastry in the world. </p><p>   God, please deliver me from this hell. </p><p>	“No worries.” All he could do was chew in response, it was him saying "You’re welcome” in a way he couldn’t even if his mouth was unoccupied. Maurice quietly rejoiced at the fact that he had an excuse to remain silent. But the silence drew on… and on… And. He snapped his eyes up at his mid-chew, instantly met with wide blue eyes. </p><p>	“What?” Maurice asked with his mouth full. Wouldn't Mother would be proud? Clive shook his head.</p><p>	"You—” Clive winced and closed his eyes. “What happened?”</p><p>	What is it to you? </p><p>	Maurice continued with his pastry.</p><p> 	“Hall, you have to talk to me.” </p><p>	No, I don’t. Not while I’m eating and not once I’ve finished. </p><p>	“Is it your parents? Did they send you bad news?” </p><p>	Please, leave me alone.</p><p>	“Okay… A terrible grade?” </p><p>	Oh, if only. </p><p>	“I can help you, erm, whatever subject it’s in.” </p><p>	Maurice swallowed and finally spoke. </p><p>	“You can’t help me.” Maurice immediately closed his eyes regretfully as Clive’s eyes sunk to the danish.</p><p>	“Hall, I’m only—” Clive bit his lip again. “A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice.”</p><p>	“Thank you.” I’m sorry. </p><p>	Clive scoffed and finally stepped away. Maurice turned back into his bed, both relieved that the interrogation was over and ashamed at himself. Well, more than he already was. Clive silently changed into his pajamas behind a curtain and slammed the bathroom door to prepare for bed. Once he was back in the room, he sighed again. Maurice could hear him open a book. It must have been the one Gladwell assigned to read. One of Plato’s Socratic dialogues. He turned the pages violently and could tell that he was close to ripping the pages. After a couple of minutes, he gave up, heaving Clive's last dejected sigh of the evening a sigh. He got up to turn off the light switch, the only remaining light coming from the lamp on the nightstand. After switching it off, he went under the covers and there was a deafening silence. Maurice knew he was about to say something. He braced himself. </p><p>	“I’m guessing it’s the chaps,” Clive whispered. Maurice melted into his bed in relief. He doesn’t know. </p><p>	“I know they’re a bit—” </p><p>	“Pretentious?” Maurice teased. </p><p>	“Well, that and…” Maurice embraced the out that was offered to him. </p><p>	“They can’t tell their leg from their elbow?” Clive finally chuckled, if only tentatively.</p><p>	“Well, to be fair, it’s not so easy.”</p><p>	“Eh, I think that means you’ve caught something from them.”</p><p>	“Well, honestly can anyone tell their leg from their elbow?” Maurice made a show of shifting in his sheets in the darkness and touched both.</p><p>	“Huh. I guess not.” </p><p>	Clive paused.</p><p>	“Well, er, I’m sorry. Maybe next time I can tell them to shove off.” Maurice smiled in the darkness. </p><p>	“It’s alright, Durham. Goodnight.”</p><p>	“Goodnight, Hall.” It might have been the fault of his ears, but he heard a hint of tenderness in his name. As he closed his eyes, the timbre echoed in his ears. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>	Morning finally arrived, but the heat departed. The unseen sun painted the walls with a placid blue and although the church hadn’t yet even struck six, Maurice still woke with a start. He squinted at the bedside clock and saw that it was a quarter till before turning his eyes to the other side of the room. What he could only describe as a dark mound was stock still against the azure rays. Tearing his eyes away, Maurice remembered that he promised himself the night before that he would study as soon as he had the chance. He wiped his face with a damp hand and padded his way to the bathroom not casting another glance in Clive’s direction. </p><p>	As he regarded himself through the looking glass he saw the face of a man who would barely make it through the day: the morbid circles under his eyes, hair pointing in each and every direction, and the drool on his chin. He turned on the tap and let the water run steadily before tipping his head beneath it to refresh himself. He felt the cool stream flow to his mouth before looking out the window to his left with a shining face. There were no clouds to count in the sky, only the precious crepuscular ombre above. </p><p>	Maurice was still a bit shaken from the night before, but he tried to push it to the back of his mind. His main concern for today was bustling through the first few hours of the morning studying until he was cross-eyed before braving through what he anticipated to be an excruciating lecture of Professor Gladwell’s. The lectures had so far been the best he had ever attended, thanks only in part to Gladwell himself. No, his gripe was with Plato himself.</p><p>	Oh, Plato. </p><p>	Ever since Gladwell had assigned The Symposium to the class Maurice had initially been both overjoyed and overwhelmed by the prospect of discussing the material with the class, and by proxy with Clive himself. Had Maurice read it before? Maybe… Absolutely. But reading The Symposium analytically for academic purposes was different from reading it as someone hopelessly in love. </p><p>	He splashed water on his face again before casting a cursory glance at himself and exiting the bathroom. Even in the relative darkness of the bedroom, he could see that Clive had turned away from the door. Ignoring this, Maurice gathered his day clothes and robe to change into behind the curtain. Still half-asleep, Maurice was tempted to spend the rest of the day in his pajamas, but with a resigned shrug, he put on his robe, gathered his studying materials, and made his way towards the front door. </p><p>	“Early bird?” a soft voice called out. Maurice’s hand was an inch from the doorknob when his heart fluttered. Even at an ungodly hour, barely awake, Clive still maintained his teasing nature.</p><p>	“Unlike someone else, I’m not aiming to fall behind," Maurice said still facing the door. </p><p>	“You only wish, Hall,” Clive slurred through his pillow.</p><p>	“Alright, sleepyhead, I’ll be in the library drowning in books if you need me.” </p><p>	“I won’t. How dare you, Hall, for making such a gross assumption,” Clive grunted softly before a chuckling Maurice left the room. He headed directly to breakfast in the dining hall. </p><p>His footsteps echoed frightfully as he took careful notice of the sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows. He glared above at the images glaring down at him—the holy, antiquated scenes of stories that he began to doubt. Each bold color blatantly outlined in black. Each color bounded by the prison of each pane. On the ground, the sieved rays blended like watercolor, a palette of purples, blues, reds, and golds, each mingling with the other contentedly. On other days, the morning flood of students swallowed him whole, drowned him in swishing robes and heavy limbs, tossed him this way and that, and finally spat him out at the lecture room. This morning, as exhausted as Maurice was, was so beautifully silent and empty that his nerves abated entirely, replacing it with a near-optimistic contemplation. He soon found himself in the sparsely occupied dining hall and sought a space nearest the exit where he ate as he studied. Maurice nodded to the others nearest to him who were also studying. The last couple weeks of the term proved to be especially grueling than any other, even without considering the heat. Due to the hall’s haunting acoustics, the pen-scratchings, page-turning, and clatter of utensils echoed. </p><p>	Now, an astute pupil would think to prioritize their worst subject first to study. That subject being the humanities for Maurice, it would follow that he would start there. Or at least this was his excuse to start reading Plato's Symposium at the ghostly hour of six in the morning. Now, of course, as mentioned before he had already read the work in its entirety, but that was years ago. A lifetime ago. Once Gladwell assigned the work, Maurice realized that this would be the only time he was tempted to commit the unthinkable: set aside the book for later. And in this case, later meant a mere few hours before they would have to discuss the said book with said professor. It was not sloth. No, of course it wasn't, but when he read the first page he almost hurled the book across the room in a fit of repressed lusty rage: "I was looking for you, Apollodorus, only just now, that I might ask you about the speeches in praise of love... " Praise of love. Love. Eros. A single word. </p><p>	An. Entire. Work. About. Love.</p><p>	So, as the church bells struck six, the savory eggs and bacon that tasted like sand barely went down and he gathered his belongings and headed out with Clive's name on his tongue and in the back of his mind. Under the lofty windows and high-ceiled hallways, only for a moment did he feel so small and vulnerable. So alone. But he convinced himself that that was exactly what he needed. He set a path for his consecrated domain: the library. After that fleeting moment, Maurice was once again grateful for the stillness, the only sounds being the crisp turning of pages. The near-palpable smell of old books and the warm glow of the lamps was enough for him to forget Clive entirely. Well, not really.</p><p>	He found an empty desk and dove in. </p><p>	So, The Symposium. </p><p>	Eros. </p><p>	The god of love. </p><p>	And sex. </p><p>	Oh, <i>Christ.</i></p><p>	Maurice never put off assigned reading, but in this particular instance, there was nothing more painful than having all of his feelings outlined in front of him. He opened the book with dread and he simply scanned the first few pages before landing on a sentence which made his heart swell painfully: “Love will make men dare to die for their beloved-love alone; women as well as men.” The character Phaedrus describes the nature of love as a virtuous one. He tells the story of Alcestis, a woman who was so noble and dedicated that she was willing to sacrifice her life for her lover. He flipped to the next page... and to the next one and throughout each page, Clive’s delicate face seemed to be engraved into them, trappings and all. Down to the cheekbones. <i>Early bird?</i> Maurice recalled the touch of his chin, the stinging ice, the warm hand. The way he shivered and the way he tried to hide it by brushing him away. </p><p>	But nothing compared to the passage that followed. With each shift of his eyes, his heart became heavier and heavier. His breath caught: "Very different was the reward of the true love of Achilles towards his lover Patroclus…” Further down: “Nevertheless he gave his life to revenge his friend, and dared to die, not only in his defence, but after he was dead Wherefore the gods honoured him even above Alcestis, and sent him to the Islands of the Blest. These are my reasons for affirming that Love is the eldest and noblest and mightiest of the gods; and the chiefest author and giver of virtue in life, and of happiness after death.” </p><p>	Maurice squirmed in his chair. </p><p>	Of course, he had read the Iliad and was intimately aware of the storied friendship between Achilles and Patroclus outlined throughout, but that’s all he thought it was. A friendship. A bond forged from steel between two comrades who would defend each other through death. The idea of it being anything more seemed absurd to him. Two men? Not only to men, two men who were canonized as some of the most heroic figures in all of literature? Ridiculous! But here it was, in all its glory, and from the way Clive carried himself, he would be damned if he didn’t regard Clive as the Patroclus to his—</p><p>	"Is anyone sitting here?" Maurice started in his chair and shut the book with a clap akin to a gunshot. </p><p>	"Hall, it's only me! Didn't mean to startle you." He didn’t even hear him approach. Maurice looked up at him. </p><p>	“Erm, n—no, you're fine. Have a seat, er, if you want.” Damn, he has me stammering now. Clive never rises at this hour. Hell, he barely rises before the breakfasting hour is over. And he especially does not get up to study first thing in the morning. He was a night owl through and through and this owl sat resignedly beside him to yawn before opening the same book. </p><p>	"What page are you on?" Clive asked nonchalantly.</p><p>	"Erm." He looked down at the closed book in his hands. "Thanks to you I lost my page." Well, no. He knew, in fact, he never lost a page in his life, he just wasn't in the particular mood to discuss the last threads of his thoughts. </p><p>	"Hm. Well, how far have you made it in?" </p><p>	"Not nearly far enough, I'm afraid," Maurice made sure to answer evasively.  </p><p>	"Well, I win. I'm on the first page," Clive unabashedly wiggled his eyebrows. Maurice laughed quietly.  </p><p>	"Do you really expect to finish that any time soon?" </p><p>	"Soon?" Clive scoffed and raised his eyebrows.</p><p>	"Well, I only mean... this is the first time you've left an assignment till the last minute." </p><p>	"What should I say to you, then?" Maurice looked down. </p><p>	"I—I... " </p><p>	"It's no surprise, Hall, it's not an easy read," he consoled. </p><p>	That wasn't right. </p><p>	Compared to the previous works? The Symposium was a dense reading, but relative to everything else, the reading itself went by pretty smoothly. The most grueling element of the assignment was getting around the feelings throughout it. He had to trudge through it like a thick, unforgiving sticky swamp. The fact that Clive believed that it wasn't an easy read when he himself thought that it was, made him doubt. And he really never procrastinated on an assignment. As inhumanly studious as Maurice was in comparison to Clive, the last thing Clive was was lazy.</p><p> “Well, yes, it is... in a way,” he said. </p><p> "'In a way?' Care to explain to the class, Hall?" </p><p> "Durham... you know I have work to do." And of course, at that cursed moment, Clive engaged the twinkle in his eye, the tilt of his head, and the quirk at the side of his mouth. The epitome of sweetness.</p><p> "Aw. No room to entertain poor old Durham?" Maurice sent him a glare to mask his warmed heart, and Clive instantly raised his hands in surrender. </p><p> "Alright, okay. I'll be a good boy," he said as he clamped a hand over his mouth and then pretended to lock it with an invisible key.</p><p> Clive with his lips still pursed sent a salute his way. From then on, a silence ensued between the pair of them, only the occasional shift of the sheet. He had only two classes today: Philosophy II and Rhetoric and Composition. Philosophy was the first and started at half-past eleven, leaving five hours (give or take) for glorious, uninterrupted studying. He had his Physics and Calculus finals later in the week, but he put his easier subjects on the backburner.</p><p> It had been forty-five minutes when he reached a particularly lengthy chunk spoken by an Erximachus when Clive cleared his throat all too obviously. Maurice quirked an eyebrow.</p><p> "Whatever you are about to say, is it worth interrupting my golden streak?" Clive rolled his eyes. </p><p> "Oh, hush, Hall. I was—" Clive paused while looking down at his book. "I was wondering what you thought of this." Oh, dear. He should have seen this coming, but it didn't ease the dread that filled him thinking about discussing this book with the very person he tried not to associate with it. </p><p> "Of course, Durham." Damn it all to hell. </p><p> "Well—" Clive waved him over. Maurice stood and walked to his chair looking down over his shoulder. He had a clear view of his silken waves, and this was not the only time he had the aching impulse to use both hands to card his fingers through them. Even the desire to lean down and steal a whiff was difficult to quell. </p><p> “I am not sure that I agree with half of this," Clive said. Maurice followed his slender finger to the exact passage and saw if he could grasp its meaning. In this passage, the character Pausanias is trying to explain two forms of Eros (or forms of Love) that should be distinguished: one representing pure lust and the other a true admiration and affection arising from respect and appreciation of the individual. Once he finished reading, Clive looked up at him. </p><p> "What do you think?" They looked at each other and their noses were only inches apart. Clive seemed nearly cross-eyed when their eyes met and Maurice backed away barely suppressing a nervous giggle. </p><p> "About what?" he asked. </p><p> "Do you think it's possible to make such a distinction?" Maurice was slightly confused by this. </p><p> "What do you mean?" </p><p> "Between the two Loves?" Maurice laughed once again. </p><p> "I mean, one has to make it, no? The love one has for a teacher or parent surely differs from that which one has for their—their lover." Clive rolled his eyes. </p><p> "Yes, I know that. I'm talking about romantic love, Hall, have you heard of it? I think," Clive paused to glance at the front and back cover. "I believe it is the one and only topic of this dialogue. These Greeks seemed a bit passionate about it." </p><p> And at that Maurice's breath hitched and Clive continued, seemingly unaware of this. </p><p> "Do you think that in being in love you can separate the, well, in his words, 'base' lust from the 'higher' admiration?" </p><p> Now, Maurice had to choose his words carefully, and choosing them in front of the person he both lusted after and deeply admired. In his case, the two were inextricably linked. Didn't the lust come from the admiration? And did his lust not amplify said admiration? But for Pausanias, it was the admiration of another's thoughts, intellect, and 'disposition' that was noble and respectable—pure even. The lust itself was not worthwhile and was, in fact, immoral—primal. When thinking about himself, the idea seemed a bit absurd. He couldn't untangle the boisterous personality, the bright smile, the sharp wit and intellect, and bright eyes when regarding his love for Clive. It all came together; it was all... lust-worthy. He couldn't really think about Clive with that all amalgamating together in his mind, like a rich soup. So— </p><p> "No. I mean, I don't know... I would assume that... you can never completely separate them. But, regardless, there's always a spectrum, well, I mean, there are degrees. Surely, one could seek out a relationship that is more based upon physical attraction than—than emotional... and vice versa," he stumbled. </p><p> "Oh, Maurice, is this talk about Eros a bit too... erot—" </p><p> "You really don't need to finish that sentence. Such a cheap line. Durham, I expected more from you." Clive laughed. </p><p>"Well... all the same. Even if there are degrees... Is there anything wrong with an appreciation for a, erm, purely corporeal beauty." Corporeal beauty? Oh, Durham, I'm looking at it.</p><p> "Appreciation? Well, no...wait" Maurice paused. "Do you want me to speak in relation to the text, or to give my own opinion?" </p><p>"Hall, why would I even—" Durham pinched his nose and Maurice flushed a bit. "We're not in class. I'm not Gladwell, I just want your opinion, as someone—as my friend."</p><p><i>Friend.</i> Of course, well. </p><p> "Well, as your friend, I think where the damage starts isn't merely from, in your words," Maurice paused to chuckle while Clive rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time,  "'appreciation of one's corporeal beauty' or lust, or however they call it, it's when you start treating them as an object. I think you can, er, lust after someone while respecting them." </p><p> "But where does the respect come from?" Oh. </p><p> "I—oh, I see. I guess it comes from the 'higher' love, but still... I see nothing wrong with pursuing someone merely because of their physical attractiveness. Of course, as long as they feel the same." </p><p> "Hmm." </p><p> "Overall, I don't really like the distinction between 'higher' and 'lower' loves. As long as you aren't hurting anyone..." Clive slowly nodded, seeming to piece something together. "I see nothing wrong," Maurice continued. </p><p>"Of course." </p><p> "Are you satisfied? Can I go back to my chair now, Professor Durham?" Clive smiled warmly and nodded. But that wasn’t the end of it, Maurice would have been a fool to think so. A few minutes later, and Clive didn’t bother with a preemptive throat-clearing before saying, </p><p>“Did you reach that part?” </p><p> “What part?” he lied. </p><p> "Nevermind." And Clive dropped it. Maurice scoffed inaudibly and wanted to jump from his chair. Professor Gladwell, before assigning the work, gave a disclaimer that throughout the text there would be references to "Greek Love," and that people were more than willing to discuss it briefly—to the shock of each and every boy in the room. People did not "discuss" such things anywhere, least of all young English boys in the holy classroom. But Gladwell did seem to be a bit iconoclast and he did warn that a discussion would undoubtedly be uncomfortable, and most importantly a distraction if there was too much focus on it. And there was one particular part of the book he had reached that made a direct reference to the love between men. It followed after the portion they had discussed only minutes before. </p><p> There, Pausanias' main criticism was of the lust of men after women and young boys, and the example of the lofty love was the love the teacher has for his student. Now, it wasn't a Platonic love. It was a romantic love that the teacher held that Pausanias praised.  But this was somewhat standard in Ancient Greece, and this Maurice already knew. He assumed that this was what Clive was referring to, and it made him genuinely uncomfortable. He skipped through that portion, gathering the general meaning, driven by mainly disgust. Plato's analysis of sexuality and romantic love revolved around men, and women's sexuality played little role in their philosophical ponderings since women were held in low regard in Ancient Greece. So when he read that the ultimate and pure example of love was between a male teacher and their male student; whereas, the baser love was not only lust between a man and a young boy, but a man and a woman, Maurice was incredulous. Where did women fit into all of this? Definitely not in any of these philosophers' circles, which was a shame. Regardless, he did have to agree with Clive in that he did not find himself agreeing with Plato in this section. </p><p> Maurice had paused in reading the dialogue, switching to the work of his other class. He spent all of two hours annotating, outlining and re-outlining a bland, uninspired oration before returning to The Symposium with a quarter of an hour left. He had made it to the last few pages and there was tension in the air as he trudged on. Reading this while sitting next to Clive, he couldn’t help feeling self-conscious again, which wasn’t how he usually felt with him. Their legs almost touched and Maurice readily moved them away. A few moments later and he found them magnetically drawn to each other again. </p><p> “I’m going to the restroom.” Maurice hesitated and Clive chuckled. </p><p> “What, are you going to ask for my permission?  </p><p> “Shut up, Durham.” He smirked, hiding his inner troubles. He didn’t need to use the bathroom, of course, but he did near to clear his mind of those thoughts. He went to the courts and observed the other students marching onward in a stream to their classes. The throng appeared fluid, and all dressed in their black robes the dense mass of scholars seemed monolithic in the sunlight. If not for Clive, he didn’t think he could go on at this school, everyone else was so staid and bland. A mundane shade of grey. He was raised so differently from Clive. For his entire life, not including his hilarious family, he was surrounded by the same people with respectable ideas, proper poise, and conservative attitudes. He didn’t realize exactly how oppressive it was until he met Clive. It wasn’t merely his intellectual strengths, he was so zealous and ardent and earnest about everything he said and did. He was honest in a world that generally dictated otherwise. And he loved him. It was everything about him, not any single thing. Because not any single thing comprised of Clive. Clive was Clive. And Maurice loved him. He was so immersed in his love-lorn thoughts that he almost forgot about returning to the library and didn’t hear Clive approach.  </p><p> “Hall.” He started and spun around.  </p><p> “Oh, Christ, Durham, this is the second time. Sorry, I, erm, was distracted. Should we go back?” Clive avoided his eyes. </p><p> “Not really. I don’t think I’m quite inclined to Plato’s works at the moment," he said while holding both of their things. Maurice chewed his lip. Oh, good Lord, what could that mean? He seemed so inclined a couple of hours ago. He knew, though. He could barely bear it, but he wasn’t going to be the first to mention the subject directly. He just couldn’t, it was too painful. </p><p>“Class starts in ten minutes.” </p><p> Maurice nodded and they went on their way. They didn’t talk; there wasn’t much to address besides, of course, the elephant in the room. They were the first ones to enter the classroom and chose their usual seats next to each other. He honestly didn’t know how he was going to get through this class today, Clive <i>apparently</i> didn’t end up finishing it, and without Clive engaged in the discussion, the class dynamics would be totally shifted. As other classmates entered, Clive just gave him a sad smile, which made his stomach lurch. The last people to enter were Clive’s two other friends, Harris and George whom he resented. He wished Clive would regard them more harshly, but he was never the best at acknowledging the worst in people, however much there was to go by.  </p><p> Harris plopped himself right beside Clive, and they turned to each other. George as a rule always sat next to Harris, so Maurice was left on the outskirts of their discussions. Great. Another reason to end it all now. Maurice didn’t have too much time to dwell upon it because Professor Gladwell entered with his resonant voice.  </p><p> “Alright, class, let’s get on with it.” Clive, Harris, and George were still chattering.  </p><p> “Ahem.” The trio looked up and sobered instantly.  </p><p>“Mr. Durham. What’s so interesting? You seemed engaged in the most impassioned discussion. What about, pray tell?” Gladwell said it almost as a challenge.  </p><p>“Oh, nothing sir. We were only addressing the reading.”  </p><p>“Oh? And what are your thoughts? If you could enlighten us.” Clive glanced at Maurice.  </p><p> “Oh, well, that’s the problem, sir. I had some trouble understanding it.”  </p><p> Professor Gladwell and Maurice raised their eyebrows.  </p><p> “Oh, really?”  </p><p> “Yes, sir.”  </p><p> “I somehow find that hard to believe. Unless.” Gladwell stroked his beard.  </p><p> “Unless you didn’t do the reading.” Clive didn't answer—whatever answer he gave would be blasphemous anyway.  </p><p> “No worries. Mr. Hall,” he said with his piercing eyes still glued to Clive. </p><p>“Er, yes?” </p><p> “I want to start this class slightly differently. I would like you to pose a question to the class.” Maurice panicked. Damn. A question… a question. Then he suddenly had a moment of clarity. He glanced at Clive and for a split second, they made eye-contact. He couldn’t decipher his expression. He wasn’t wearing the usual encouraging smile; it was more like he was anxiously anticipating his answer. </p><p> “I guess... ” he looked at the class shyly. His confidence he had cultivated for months was suddenly nowhere to be found. </p><p> “You guess?” He paused to swallow. </p><p> “My question is: how do you think Eros can promote virtue? According to Plato, of course.” Maurice did his utmost to stare at the table. </p><p> “Thank you! Someone did the reading,” Gladwell said as he eyed Clive with disappointment. </p><p> “Now. Who would like to answer?” he said as he looked directly at Clive, who refused to return his glance. Harris raised his hand. </p><p> “Yes, Mr. Harris.” </p><p> “Are we allowed to share our own opinion, or do we have to answer in terms of the text?” </p><p> “Why not <i>both</i>?” As Harris bit his lip, Maurice laughed inwardly. </p><p> “Well.” Harris chuckled.  “I think Hall is taking for granted that Eros does indeed promote virtue." Clive flinched. "According to the text, I think Eros is very much a vice.”</p><p> “And your evidence, Mr. Harris?” Harris looked at him incredulously. </p><p> “Wait, are you joking, sir? I think it’s self-evident—” </p><p> “Does it look like I’m joking? And, no, Harris, in philosophy very little is in fact 'self-evident.'” Harris narrowed his eyes and flipped through the book. </p><p> “Right here, sir, on page twenty-three." </p><p> "Could you read it aloud for us, Harris?" </p><p> "Yes sir. In this section of the dialogue, the character Pausanias says: The Love who is the offspring of the common Aphrodite is essentially common, and has no discrimination, being such as the meaner sort of men feel, and is apt to be of women as well as of youths, and is of the body rather than of the soul—the most foolish beings are the objects of this love which desires not only to gain an end, but never thinks of accomplishing the end nobly, and therefore does good and evil quite indiscriminately." </p><p> Harris ended the sentence with an especially obnoxious flourish of the hand and a pretentious flicker of the eye. Maurice wanted to simultaneously guffaw and vomit; however, this soon subsided as Clive's hand shot out of the air. </p><p> "Yes, Durham. I see you're eager to contribute, but let's listen to Harris' interpretation first and how it relates to his greater argument." Harris' smile fell, feeling that his clever quote spoke for itself. </p><p> "Well, go on, let's hear what you have to say," Gladwell said. </p><p> "Erm, yes, well... As Pausanias says here, a certain form of Eros promotes a love for the body and is unthinking and foolish. Possibly even destructive. And we'd assume as such, would we not? Going by what the Greeks found acceptable..." Harris spat. </p><p> Gladwell turned to Clive. "Would you care to respond, Durham?" Clive spoke, although in response to Harris, directly to Maurice. </p><p> "Yes, sir, there are two points that I would like to address. Firstly, Harris, your main argument is that Eros is 'very much a vice.' I don't think that this quote supports that, Pausanias is merely outlining one form that Eros takes." Harris scoffed at this, yet flushed profusely, and Maurice almost laughed.  "Secondly," Clive paused to stare at Maurice, who felt his insides warm, "Hall posited not that Eros does promote virtue, but that Eros <i>can</i> promote it. Your argument is a non sequitur." Once he finished, Maurice was agape and seemingly Clive himself was as well. They both flushed and looked away as Gladwell cleared his throat. </p><p> "Well, Mr. Durham, this is not Rhetoric II, although I do appreciate the contributions to the greater discussions. But let us continue, what are all the points that are made in favor of and in opposition to Eros?" </p><p> And as the discussion continued, Maurice and Clive found themselves avoiding the other's gaze until class ended. As they all gathered their books, Harris turned to Clive. </p><p> "What was that about? 'Non sequitur' and all that rubbish? You can't just let me gather the little participation I can?" Clive shrugged cooly. </p><p> "If there's a fallacy, there's a fallacy, Harris. Although I know you can't help it—" Harris scoffed shoved him slightly and walked past him, pulling George along with him. </p><p> And the two walked out of the room and out of sight. </p><p>"Good riddance," Maurice muttered.</p><p> "Yes, I suppose." At that, Maurice elbowed him. </p><p> "Thank you. For defending my, er, honor." </p><p> "No, it wasn't that," Clive muttered while looking at the ground. "It's—Harris was getting on my nerves." Maurice only nodded and they walked to the dining hall for a quick lunch before their next class. They still hadn't addressed the general concept of love between men and the implications there, and Maurice didn't think it would be possible for him to hold a conversation on the topic before collapsing in on himself. He was surprised that Clive had not brought the topic up earlier, for he was never afraid of discussing the taboo and in fact, reveled in it to some degree. </p><p> Once they arrived, he realized that he wasn't all too hungry, and as they sat down to listen to the luncheon-prayer, Maurice eyed the food with a bit of disgust. Clive dug in, however, and the next thirty-or-so minutes left little room for a lengthy conversation. Maurice even realized that he didn't have an appetite for danishes after Clive made the sweet offer. </p><p> "No, thanks, I'm not really hungry." Clive tilted his head before shaking it. </p><p> "A shame, I'm actually in the mood for one. Do you want to—?" Clive pointed to the kitchens. </p><p> "No, it's alright. Actually... I have Rhetoric and Composition in a few minutes, so I'll meet you later." Clive smiled sadly. </p><p> "Oh, okay. I actually wanted to discuss something, but we can carry on tonight." Maurice nodded a bit too eagerly before speedwalking to class. Now, Rhetoric and Composition was his most bland class. Without Clive there it was just another droning humanities class which wasn't his forte. He had a strong affinity for mathematics and the sciences, but Philosophy II was by far his favorite class (for clear reasons). He looked down at the speech he had annotated with disappointment. It was rubbish, but it was better than turning in nothing. As he sat down in his seat in the corner of the room, he listened to a series of speeches from his classmates which were, almost impossibly, more boring than his. After he volunteered to go after a student who stumbled and nearly fell headfirst through his Latin, Maurice returned to his chair and found himself a wink near sleep. </p><p> "De maximis rebus ad diem ortus nostri cultu perseverantiam... " </p><p> Behind his closed lids, he saw chestnut waves, </p><p> "...Technicae artis progressiones principils cara." </p><p> The rose-tinted cupid's bow, </p><p> "...Non ils, non poterunt dicere fratum nostrorum." </p><p> And the crystalline irises. Maurice suddenly felt robes brush past him and he opened his eyes to meet the face of his professor. </p><p> "I hope you've caught up on your sleep, Hall. Seems like you needed it," he said with a raised eyebrow. </p><p> "Sorry, sir, I—" He stopped him with a wave of his hand and Maurice rushed out of the classroom before his professor called after him. </p><p> "Forgetting something, Hall?" Maurice looked down, seeing the papers folded in his hands. </p><p> "Oh, sorry," he said as he handed his composition to him. He only shook his head and shooed him out. He headed up to the dorms slowly, dreading the inevitable. As he paused at the door, he wondered what excuse he could come up with without sounding cold, but he couldn't. He took a breath and entered and saw Clive sitting on his bed. He looked up at him. </p><p> "Were you waiting for me this entire time?" Maurice said half-jokingly. </p><p> "I—no... I've been thinking..." </p><p> "Thinking? Isn't everyone always thinking?" Clive paused ignoring him for a moment, twiddling his thumbs (which Maurice inwardly added to the list of adorable things signature to him). </p><p> "We've never discussed the Greeks." </p><p> "Yes, we have." </p><p> "I mean. The Greeks. The, erm, Athenian ideals, the, er, unspeakable vice..." Maurice panicked. </p><p> "What is there to discuss?" </p><p> "I don't think that there's anything unspeakable." </p><p> "Durham, I'm dreadfully sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not comfortable having this discussion." Clive knit his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes as he reddened. </p><p> "Why?" Oh, God. </p><p> "I—I just... not right now." </p><p> "Where else would we discuss this? In the classroom? With our parents?" Clive scoffed. "The old boys: Harris and George?" </p><p> "Durham..." </p><p> "I honestly hadn't expected this from you. You're actually the last person I'd expect to react this way." At this, Maurice could feel his heart pound through his chest. </p><p> "What...are you saying, Durham? Choose your words carefully," he said all too bitingly. </p><p> "I—I'm not—I don't mean—" Durham palmed his face. "I'm just curious. I've never had the opportunity to talk about this with you before." </p><p> "And you're sure as hell not going to get the opportunity now!" Clive stood up from his bed. </p><p> "Hall, stop being so—" </p><p> "So what?" Clive didn't respond. "So thick?" Clive shook his head but still remained silent. </p><p> "Listen, I don't have to hear you poke and prod. I'm sure whatever you find isn't as interesting as you would think," he gritted. And with that he left it there, not wanting to be the center of his "philosophical ponderings." </p><p> "Hall, I—" Clive's voice cracked out, but he didn't have the opportunity to hear whatever he was about to say because he was already on the other side of the door. Maurice sighed and closed his eyes. </p><p>As he looked out of the nearest window, he saw his own reflection superimposed on the sight of the courtyard outside. He didn't really know what to make of it, and he knew even less what to make of Clive. </p>
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